


The Iron Family

by sarcastic_fina



Series: The Multiships of One Chloe Sullivan [30]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Smallville
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcastic_fina/pseuds/sarcastic_fina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't deserve it once, but he's earned it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Iron Family

Sometimes, during a deep sleep, he can still hear gunfire. He can feel the ground quaking beneath him and almost see their faces, those young soldiers who risked their lives and died for him. Their laughter still rings in his ears before complete and total silence and then the explosion. He can feel his insides tear away from his bones, his skin physically move from the pressure. And then there's screaming, orders to him, to each other, and he's shoved away, out of the barrage of fire. There was blood, cries of death, and lives lost before his eyes. He wakes up sweating, his eyes wide and his chest heaving with each gasped breath.

For a second, even when he's awake, he's still there. Lying in the sand, a round of bullets in his vest, knocking the air out of him and his feet from beneath him. Echoes rule his ears and he doesn't see the black emptiness of his bedroom. He tastes sand in his mouth, inhales it deep into his nostrils. His eyes are itchy, dry, and he swears he can feel the hot sun making his skin damp. Death, so close and so far, still following his every step like he outran the reaper but he'd only hung around, waiting in the background for his second chance to snatch his soul.

The heavy curtains are closed so for all he knows it's morning already. The body fast asleep at his side tells him different. He need only look to the right and he'd know the time. But he doesn't, he never does. Instead he follows his usual routine on nights like these. On nights where he's reminded of that fateful day where it all could have ended and he never would have been enlightened to the real world around him. The politics that came between him and somebody he considered like a father. Obadiah is long gone now and Ironman has only grown larger than life. Pepper would say he'd been an idiot to tell the people who he was, what he'd done. In fact, she did, shortly before she and Rhodey started dating. That was a blow to the ego, he remembered wryly. He bounced back just fine, he always did. And if anything, losing Pepper had at least opened his eyes much like his near-death experience had. After his three month captivity, he'd come home craving cheeseburgers and world peace. Or, okay, to be clearer, world peace was a  _little_ bit of an overstatement. What he really wanted was to be the good guy, rather than the guy who sold arms to the bad guy and convinced himself that was okay. Admittedly, he had no idea Obadiah was selling to both sides and comforted himself with the idea that his technologies were strictly American-used, helping his people and his army. Until those same arms were used to kill that same army he had such pride in. And then he was forced to open the eyes that had been oblivious in their trust of Obadiah Stane.

It seemed like another life, one he should be used to by now. He'd gone from living the way he wanted, with everything he could ever desire at his fingertips, to a cave in the middle of a desert, where he'd been forced to build an iron suit to save himself and Yinsen, who unfortunately had not made it to out. He went from oblivious trust and careless disregard for his life's work to taking a good look at what his company did and provided. He went from a multi-woman playboy to a one-woman man. And soon, he'll have another title to add to the many that had already changed.

With that thought, he turns to her.

To the woman who'd come into his life like a bulldozer, a proposition in one hand and an ideal in the other. Liaison to the Justice League, Watchtower had come bearing a chance to join something bigger than himself. Egotist that he was and still very much is, Tony had been ready to laugh in her face, delectable as it was. But Chloe Sullivan was no pushover and she wasn't about to be talked down to by the likes of him. It was  _that_ that first attracted him to her. Or, okay, to be completely honest, it was her curves and very nicely proportioned ass that  _first_ attracted him, but that other stuff came in handy shortly thereafter.

"You want to save the world and privatize world peace, I can help you with  _one_ of those," she told him, a blonde brow rising over her liquid green eyes. "Hard as I'm sure it is to chew on, there are other people out there with that same desire to save people."

"Chewing I have no problem with, swallowing is another deal entirely," he'd replied quickly, "What about you, Ms. Sullivan? Would you say swallowing was an easy feat for yourself?"

Her lips quirked in both amusement and disdain; he applauded her abilities.

"I'm here to offer you a chance of a lifetime, Mr. Stark. But if you'd rather send me on my merry way, say the word already."

Tapping his lips, he narrowed his eyes. "I'm all ears, and a few other handy limbs that I'm sure I could introduce you to in due time." He waved. "Continue with your pointless proposition, please."

She snorted. "You've heard of the Justice League, I'm sure."

He nodded, still looking bored with the subject. "Whispers, tall tales, bits and pieces of fantasy weaved with too much alcohol and loose lips."

"We'll see about that," she whispered nonchalantly. "Then you know it exists, at least. And has been cornering the market on do-goodery for longer than you've known how to zip up your fancy iron suit."

"Mm, no zips, very technical. If you'd like, I can show you the difference between undressing regular clothes and putting on the suit… We should start with removing your blouse, button by button. We'll leave the shoes on though, I have a feeling those sharp heels of yours will feel good digging into my back." He lowered his lids over his eyes as he smirked, "I'm a bit of a masochist, if you haven't noticed."

"Flying entirely too fast in an iron suit with nothing to cushion your fall kind of warned me," she replied sarcastically.

"Hardball, I like that."

Hands on her hips, she turned, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window of his living room. "I was warned you'd be a hard sell. That my…  _gender_ would distract you." Half-smiling, she whirled back around. "Your come-on's aren't as charming as you think they are. I've lived most of my life surrounded by very handsome and very heroic men and my duty has always been to make sure they stay safe and on track… Sleeping with you?" She cocked a brow. "Not in my contract."

"Extra curricular fun then. You had much lately?" he snarked back, not losing an inch of control.

Her mouth curled at the corners. "Here's the offer, Mr. Stark… You join the League on a temporary, trial basis… Everybody sees if the fit works, if not, things return to normal, no harm, no foul."

"See, here's the problem… I don't play well with others," he told her honestly. "There's a reason I'm in a suit, flying around solo, doing what I want, rather than playing hopscotch with the locals." He rose from his seat, dropping his decanter of bourbon on the side table. "Now, one on one… That's a different story." Approaching her, he reached out, watching as her eyes narrowed warily. Trailing a forefinger down her temple and across her cheek, his thumb tapped her chin. "Now that business is out of the way, what do you say to a more pleasurable conversation?"

Her smile lengthened into a grin and Tony felt triumph bloom in his chest.

Hand lifting, she spread her fingers across his chest and then with purpose, shoved him an inch back and slightly off balance. "Thanks for the offer, but misogynistic men only out for a little play, aren't on my menu."

"Who's your chef?" he argued back. "I vote you fire him."

She rolled her eyes lightly and gathered up her jacket.

"Well wait," he sighed, following after her. "I think you have the wrong impression of me. Misogynistic is a little harsh. The only feelings I have for women are love and admiration," he assured, hurrying in front of her, hands encircling her upper arms lightly to stop her from leaving.

She scoffed. "You love what they can do for  _you_  and you admire how they make  _you_ feel." She shook her head. "I'm not looking for that kind of experience, Mr. Stark. I came here to tell you that there are other heroes out there and they're willing to let you join the club." Lifting a shoulder, she sighed. "You passed and so my job is done."

"Then stay, have a drink with me, tell me something about yourself that  _doesn't_ involve your day job."

She stared at him, gaze narrowing. "You don't get it, do you?" Sighing, she buttoned her coat. "It's not a  _day_ job. It's a  _life long career_. The world doesn't just need saving whenever you happen to fly by and see somebody in need." Frowning, she tucked her hands into her pockets. "We're talking about every little crime that happens too. There's a smaller scale of world-ending terror happening every day. And  _my_ heroes are interested in more than what my body can offer them for a night." Finally, she shook her head and took a step past him. "Good luck, Tony, with finding whatever it is you need in your life."

He learned then he had a thing for women who didn't care for his bullshit. Unlike Christine Everhart who  _said_ she disliked those things about him and then had mad, crazy monkey sex with him. Maybe it was the chase that thrilled him, knowing that unlike many of the women he'd known, Chloe wouldn't fall at his feet at the chance to have him for a night and boast about it to anybody who might listen. Or maybe it was the spark in her eyes when she spoke of heroics, the warmth that filled her face when she told him of saving the world and not just whatever happened to catch attention at the moment. Every little part of it, the overlooked and not quite newsworthy people.

Whatever it was, it had him interested.

Tonight was worse than some of the others. He remembers Yinsen lying in the dirt, dying, telling him that it was all okay, that he'd be with his family soon. He remembers how it felt to walk the desert, looking over his shoulder, wondering if he'd escaped one hell only to enter another. He remembers screams and cries and the smell of death that permeated his every breath. He remembers knowing that he  _made_ those weapons of killing, that if it weren't for him and his ego-stroking genius, there would be fewer families torn apart, less people lying dead under a rain of bullets.

And like most nights when this happens, he reaches for her. Her who saw through the bullshit, who didn't care if she was turning down an American hero with billions of dollars to his name. She walked out on him as if he were just any other guy and even when he chased after her, she still refused his advances. It was six months of courting that she adamantly refused to admit was anything more than him wanting to prove he could get any woman he wanted. Of Belgian chocolates, public declarations, jewelry and clothes and accessories, all of which she sent back without pause or consideration. Wooing, apparently, was not his forte. And so he had to up his game.

She was at home in Metropolis, Kansas, relaxing in her two-bedroom apartment that overlooked the city park. He knocked on her door at nearly midnight, waited impatiently for her to answer.

The door swung open and her irritated, flushed face stared back. Her hair was mussed, she was clutching closed a silk bathrobe and he knew he'd woken her up.

"Too late?" he asked with a smirk.

She cocked a brow. "No, I usually have guests over past midnight. I like them tired and irritable."

"Another thing we have in common then," he replied easily before walking past her and into her place.

"Yes, please, come in," she muttered to herself sarcastically. "And  _what_ was the first thing we had in common? I must've missed the memo."

"I'll have it notarized, framed and sent over for your benefit later…" Looking around, his eyes wandering across the splashes of bright color that consumed her modern apartment. She was bold and outspoken both in person and in style. It wasn't expensive but tasteful. Not for looking at but for being enjoyed. He smiled to himself. She was a woman of substance and it showed. "Are you hungry?" he asked, turning around to stare at her wonderingly.

"H-Hungry?" she repeated, blinking. "No restaurant in this city would be open now and if they are their food is old and sitting under heating lamps. So no… I'm not hungry."

"You sure?" He frowned, lifting his hands to rub them together. "'Cause I feel like pasta. You don't want pasta? Hm." Turning on his heel, he walked toward her kitchen. "If you've got the right ingredients, I could even make my own noodles."

"Wh-What?" Chasing after him, she shook her head. "Have you lost your mind? How long was the flight over? Was there turbulence and you hit your head? Massively?"

He chuckled under his breath. "Nice flight, little turbulence and if I hit my head, it probably knocked something back into place," he mused, searching through her cupboards. "Garlic, garlic… Do you have any--?"

With a sigh, she reached down and drew out a clover, holding it out for him. "I can see arguing with you is going to get me nowhere. So you can make your dinner and leave. Clear?"

He smirked, turning toward her as he leaned against her counter. "Only if you cook  _with_ me."

Chewing her lip, she eyed the time. "It could go faster that way…"

She caved and contrary to what she believed, it went slower. He managed to get her to loosen up, relax around him, and enjoy herself. They mixed spices, added vegetables and tomato pastes, stirring and bubbling until the scent made her stomach grumble with interest. And by the time two rolled around, they sat down at her small kitchen table to share a meal together. There were no over-expensive gifts or false promises. She told him he overcooked the garlic bread, he agreed, and then told her that her wine choice sucked. A gift from a friend, she admitted, one she wanted to get rid of. Glad to be the unknowing victim, he replied with a smirk.

They talked until long after the food had been packed away and their stomachs were stuffed to capacity. They were still laughing when the moon fell and the sun replaced it, when exhaustion showed beneath their eyes and each of their yawns. And eventually, she fell asleep there next to him as they sat on the floor before a snapping fire, her head sliding down to lay comfortably on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, moved a little closer, and held her as he too fell asleep. He woke tangled in her, their arms and legs and bodies wrapped up so tightly and so comfortably it was hard to tell what belonged to whom.

Staring up at him, wide-eyed, she smiled awkwardly. "Well, this was… weird, but… you know, nice."

He half-smirked. "Just don't let the press know, I have a reputation to uphold."

Rolling her eyes, she scoffed. "As if they'd believe me."

They untangled from each other but sat close together anyway. He stared at her a moment, at the way her hair fell in her eyes and even without make up, she looked so beautiful. How she hugged her robe around her and yawned big and loud, not even trying to be someone she wasn't.

"Have coffee with me," he suggested, watching as her face lit up brilliantly. Magic word, he realized. Something he learned about her, something he wouldn't forget, instead locking it in his memory as important.

That was the day they really began; the day Tony let down his own defenses and got to know Chloe Sullivan. Over pasta, bad wine, a crackling fire and little sleep. And that day would lead into a week, a month, and eventually four years, one and a half of which was spent in wedded chaos. Not bliss, because their lives hardly lent time for that, but it was a welcomed chaos, the kind he wouldn't give up for his old lifestyle of booze, women and living life to the very edge of sanity. Chloe was his pillar; she grounded him and quickly snapped back that ego of his when it got out of control. She didn't try to change him so much as reform some of his less sane qualities. It helped too that she was a genius hacker who met his every snarky word with a tasteful and quick response.

And more than anything, she understood him. She understood that behind much of the bravado and sharp personality, he had his own insecurities and doubts and regrets. She knew that occasionally, he woke up in a cold sweat, thinking he was still in that desert, on the verge of death, believing he'd helped terrorists in their war against all that was good. So when he reached for her, she leaned into his touch, always knowing when it was him and why.

His fingers walk along her arm while his eyes take in her sleeping form. Blankets and sheet kicked off, she wore only a gold silk top, the spaghetti straps fallen down her arms, and hot rod red panties, a scrap of lace that cups her lush butt invitingly. He sidles in closer to her, his body curving around hers until she's sprawled comfortably, aligned with him. She gives a soft harrumph of recognition but doesn't open her eyes.

He smirks to himself, glides a palm up her thigh, squeezes her and then feels his hands fall into the dip of her waist, deftly splayed across warm, naked flesh, pushed beneath her top to explore. She arches at his touch, her butt pressing up against his groin, rubbing with each flick of his thumb along her hipbone. His free hand reaches for her hair, drags blonde curls off her cheek and tucks them behind her ear. She opens her eyes then, half-mass with lingering sleep, and her lips curl in a smile as she stares up at him. He leans down, nose brushing hers lightly, before she can saying, before she can ask that same question she always does. "Bad dream again?" Instead he slants his mouth across hers, hushes her, and his tongue seeks hers, reaching through the heat of her mouth to find her own, to tangle and dance and mate. With a moan, she rolls over onto her back and his palm glides along her stomach, once flat but now slightly rounded and for a second, he forgets the urge to be inside of her in favor of the awe that always accompanies touching her stomach now. Of knowing that in there, inside her, is their baby. A  _baby_.  _His_  baby. His son or daughter, growing. His heart hammers for a second, fear and excitement, the latest in a long line of thrills that he lives off of.

She nips his lower lip, drawing his attention back to the present, to her and her soft, supple body. Kissing her breathless, he tears his mouth away and buries it in her neck while his hand wanders down her thigh, knuckles dragging up the inside before he hooks his finger around her panties and pulls them down. He legs raise, knees together so he can pull that scrap of fabric right down her long limbs and toss it away without a second thought. He drags his forefinger up her inner thigh, grins as she wiggles, ticklish, and then smoothes his rough palm across her thigh again. Her knees part, legs widening in anticipation, and as his hand hovers near her, he can feel the heat of her core radiating out like a beacon. She whimpers when he takes too long and he nibbles her neck, drags his teeth along her pulse. Her hands are at his shoulders, squeezing, kneading him in askance.

He pets her, fingers starting at the neat blonde curls and sliding down, flicking her clit before dragging along her wet folds, feeling her get slicker with each slow second. He pauses, makes her wait, and then he thrusts two long fingers deep inside her and twists, his thumb reaching, probing her clit while he scissors his digits inside her. She cries out, her head falling back, neck arching and his mouth slides down her chest to reach for a breast, perky, thrust out and in need of attention. He takes a nipple between his lips, rolls it along his tongue and digs his teeth in just enough to make her clench around his fingers.

There was a time when he was sure he'd never be satisfied with just one woman. His appetite called for a new adventure with each female he met, each beautiful face and new curves to roam and tease, satisfaction waiting to be given and received. But he never gets bored with Chloe; he never tires of hearing her scream his name or whimper each time he touches that one spot inside her that makes her… Oooh, she shudders almost violently, her nails gouging his flesh as she gasps his name in a rough, throaty moan. Her moist heat clenches, flutters, and then releases in a wet spasm that fills his nostrils with her heady scent. His mouth waters, his cock twitches in desire. And removing his hand from between her shaking thighs, he takes his fingers into his mouth, tongue tasting her while his hips adjust and his free hand raises her leg, hitches it around his waist, drags her down until her opening his aligned with his hard and aching length.

She lifts up on her elbows, brings her head forward and stares up at him with those green eyes of hers, shadows playing along her body, the light of his blue arc reactor making her glow ethereally. She likes to challenge him, even when he's poised to take her, even when it's inevitable that he'll have her begging him for more. Which is why he isn't surprised when her leg around his waist tightens, flips him onto his back while she rolls to a sitting position, her wet heat rubbing against his abdomen, teasingly. Her hands press into the mattress on either side of his head and she leans down, their noses bumping while she half-smiles. "I believe the doctor encouraged more  _sleeping_ …" she murmurs, cocking a brow.

"Just doing my part to exhaust you, dear," he replies in that deep, promising voice that never fails to make her bite her lip.

And when she does, he smirks, triumphant.

But then she rocks her hips back and he can feel, oh he can feel that dripping tight sweetness of hers gliding along his rigid cock and he wants nothing more than to hold her still and bottom out inside her. But she likes to tease and he warned her when they met he was somewhat of a masochist. So he suffers through the pleasure, curls his toes and locks his knees so he won't plant his feet, tilt his hips and sink into her inviting paradise. She lowers her mouth, nips his chin, lips smoothing kisses along his neck, suckling his skin and dragging her teeth along every sensitive spot she's learned throughout the years. And he remembers how very curious she's always been, how much fun they have exploring those places, how laughing with her, taking his time to learn her, never gets old. She drags her fingertips down his chest, blunt nails scoring across his pecs pause at his arc reactor and she flicks her thumbs all along the sensitive flesh that circle it before fanning out along his ribs. He jumps, can't help it, and his dick rubs her clit, makes them moan in appreciation.

His hands reach for her, smooth over curves and along her back, reach to cup her supple breasts, thumbs circling her pale pink nipples, flicking at random. She covers his hands, squeezes them, kneads along his wrist, encouraging him. And then her hips rise, tilt, and descend at just the right angle, drawing him deep inside her, inch by slow inch. He loses his breath, his chest tightens. Fuck but she feels like coming home. She doesn't move for a moment, just holds him there, fluttering all around, adjusting to the weight and girth of him filling her. Her breath stutters, eyes closed, and she smiles like this is new, like this is special. He loves that about her. And then she's leaning down, her mouth taking his, her hand burying in his hair, holding tight, and that's when he takes control again. That's when he rolls her onto her back once more and grips his hips, holding her steady as he pistons in and out of her.

Her head falls back on the pillows, hair sprawled all over, and her hands find his neck, his shoulder, for balance. She spreads her legs wide, lifts her hips and arches her body to take him as deeply as she can. He lifts one of her knees up onto his shoulder, caresses the inside of her thigh, laughs under his breath when she shudders, breath hitching at the ticklish touch. He wants to kiss her, wants to taste her lips that she's chewed into puffy pink tenderness, but some part of him won't let him lean down, won't let him put any amount of pressure on the slight roundness of her stomach. And he looks down, he can't help it, and he's reminded that this is his family. This is all his, forever. It's rare that he gets sentimental but he feels it blooming in his chest, an ache of awe that chokes him up a little. He shakes his head, wants to push it away, but instead his hand falls, caresses her stomach and he pants her name, wonderingly, as if he can't believe she's given this to him.

She looks up, quizzical and then she smiles, dazzling, perfect. She knows. She always knows.

There's a shirt that Happy had made for her shortly after they announced the pregnancy.  _Iron Baby_ with an arrow pointing down. He loves it, can't help but smirk when she wears it, which is only ever around the house because for a woman dating him, she's quite possibly the least boastful person alive. Unless it comes to hacking, then her ego seems to double in size, but otherwise she's just content to have him, to have the life they live. Her, Watchtower over a League of heroes that respect her in a way she earned in all her years of doing what was right over what was best for herself. That he was even able to convince her to give him a chance still boggles him sometimes. She's an enigma, which became part of the fun in knowing her, dating her, loving her. And when she gave in to him, there was so  _much_ to learn and understand. Besides Pepper, he'd never gotten that close to women, at least not anything but physically. But Chloe wasn't going to let that happen until she was sure there was something deeper between them. He could honestly say he'd never made love before her. Sex he was a natural at, one of his many numerous talents. But making love was new, it was slow and eyes deep in emotion and maybe even scared him a little until he realized he could be himself with her, he could fuck up and they'd laugh but it wouldn't be in the newspaper tomorrow.

She flips them back over, takes his hands and fits them on her hips so he can hold her and the baby too. And she's not afraid to lean down and kiss him, to let her stomach touch his. He wonders if in a few months he might feel a kick there, if his son or daughter might reach out and jab their foot into his gut while he's screwing the breath out of their mother. Thankfully, they don't do so now and so he can be in awe and know that she'll do what's right for the three of them in this instance and not sacrifice their sex life in the process.

She kisses him like no other woman ever has; there's passion and heat but there's also this lingering taste of absolute giving of herself. As if she's complete when she's with him and so puts all of herself into loving him. He'll never admit it out loud but those are the moments that make everything worthwhile. It's not the cheers from the crowds of adoring fans, although those are pretty awesome, and it's not the endorsement deals, even if he loves making commercials and knowing he's a household face, but the knowledge that this one woman, this one  _person_ , knows every part of him, good and bad, and can still love him. That she won't turn away at the first sign of danger, that she's not looking forward to the flash of cameras but not shunning it because she knows it's just a part of it, and that despite the arrogance and the noticeable streak of insanity, she's behind him one hundred percent.

He can feel her orgasm; it tightens all around him like a vice of hot, hot perfection. Her hands double over each other on top of his arc reactor, fingers digging in around it, and the blue light makes her face even more beautiful as it clears entirely and brightens with ecstasy. She screams his name, just like always, and it probably helps that his hand has slid down to caress her clit, to squeeze it just right and make her climax lengthen. She's still moving, still clenching all around him, and maybe it's the emotion of her being pregnant, but there's a tear that escapes down her cheek, and he comes, hard, shouting her name in a hoarse voice while gathering her up and dragging her down on top of him, cupping her butt firmly in one hand and holding her close while the other is running up and down her back soothingly.

He's panting into her hair, trying to remember how to form words and she's stretching her legs, sprawling out on top of him like she's ready for a nap now. He rolls her onto her side but keeps her close, shucking her hair off her face to he can see her. Her cheeks are flushed a bright red and her lips are curled up in a perma-grin. Opening lazy lashes, she stares up at him with dark eyes, satisfaction clear. "Handy wake-up call," she murmurs.

"Just for you." He smirks. "I tried it with Happy, he wasn't nearly as appreciative."

She chuckles, reaching across to run her fingers through his hair absently. "Afghanistan again?" she asks, voice turning soft.

"Yeah," he mutters, feigning carelessness. He blows out a breath. "For a genius, my sleeping mind is seriously low on options. You think there's anything I can do about that?" His eyes narrow in thought.

"There's no machine that'll erase bad memories, Tony," she tells him, squeezing the nape of his neck comfortingly. "You've just gotta focus on what good came out of it."

He raps his knuckles against his arc reactor. "Yeah, I started a new fashion trend. I really think it's catching on."

She rolls her eyes, staring up at him seriously. "Get off the pity train, Stark. You've got a lot more than little hardware in your chest." Rolling away from him, she rises from the bed, walking across the room, comfortable with her nakedness, and running her fingers through her hair.

Crossing his arms behind his head, he rolls onto his back to sit up and watch her. "Leaving me already? I wanted to cuddle."

She smiles back at him. "Cute."

"I've been told."

When she reaches for her robe he tisks.

"Why hide perfection?"

She shoots him a look over her shoulder. "I need a shower and food. Especially if you think there's a round two coming." She pauses in her steps when she's nearly at the bathroom door, yawns, stumbles a bit but catches herself.

A pang in his chest, fear, concern, has him up out of bed and across the room. "You all right?" he asks, hand catching her elbow while his arm wraps around her waist.

"Fine," she says, battling back another yawn. "I'm not glass, Tony. I lost my balance." She pats his hand, steps into the bathroom and walks to the shower, twisting the handle to turn the water on and testing it with her hand. "You joining me or are you going to worry unnecessarily?"

Worrying was not something he was good at. Whenever things went wrong, they got figured out. If not by him then by Pepper or somebody he paid to fix things. Chloe was not fixable. She was pregnant, stubborn, and not willing to feed his new state of concern. With a sigh, he follows her into the shower, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on her shoulder while she reaches for the body wash and a loofah. "Make yourself useful," she told him, grinning as she passed him the pink loofah over her shoulder

"If you insist," he said with faux irritation before thoroughly lathering her up, taking care across and between her thighs, along her nicely rounded butt and rubbing the soap in thickly around her breasts. He kisses her neck lingeringly, letting the loofah fall to the shower floor while his hand cups her supple breast, kneading. She leans back into him, head falling to his shoulder while she gasps softly.

"I'm gonna fall asleep right here," she murmurs warningly.

He kisses her earlobe, tugs on it with his teeth. "I'll survive."

With that, he trails his hand down and between her thighs, parting her, curving his fingers and thrusting them into her. She sighs, her arms reaching back to wrap around his neck while she rotates her hips invitingly. He could've easily turned her around, lifted her up and pinned her against the wall like he had many times before. But right then, he wants to see her come, he wants only her pleasure. Something else he's found out about himself as his relationship with her progressed. Sometimes, he wants only for her and thinks nothing of himself. It's new, weird, but he kind of likes it; likes caring about someone more than himself.

He massages her breast while he fingers her, drawing shapes along her soft, soapy skin, circling her nipple teasingly while she gasps and jerks in pleasure. She rubs her butt back against him, his erection hard between their bodies. He does his best to ignore it, instead focused on making her feel. He kisses her ears and her neck, suckles her pulse and bites lightly at her shoulder. He spreads her nectar all along her folds, teases the already sensitive flesh and tweaks her clit to make her moan. He adds a third finger when she starts to quiver, when her teeth bite hard into her lip and she stares up at him, eyes a liquid green of passion and love. And then she comes, his name a whisper on her lips, and her body so relaxed she can't even hold herself up. He kisses her then, milks her orgasm for all it's worth and then gathers her up into his arms.

She'll complain tomorrow that her hair's dried out because they didn't get a chance to wash it; he'll just have to distract her again. For now, he carries her back to their bedroom, grabs a towel and pats her down as best he can. She's already fallen asleep in his arms and doesn't so much as stir. She's still damp when he lays her back in bed and tucks the sheet around her. Peaceful; that was what her expression told him. He kisses her temple, strokes her wet hair and then leaves to take a seat on the balcony. Wearing his loose robe, he sits with his feet up, staring out at the moon overhanging the ocean outside the house. There's a bottle of bourbon that sits waiting for him, always, and he pours himself a small glass, holding it in his lap as he sits thinking.

Four years ago, Tony Stark would have had a nameless woman in his bed, calling for him, wanting to continue until dawn with the impersonal pleasure. He'd leave them there in the morning, figure they'd find their way out, and go down to his lab so he could focus on more interesting and important things. That was not the case with Chloe. Hours from now, after he'd gone back to bed and rose when she used the controller to open the heavy curtains and spread light into their room, he'd drag himself out of bed and have breakfast with her, food they'd cook together as they laughed and joked and enjoyed themselves. And when she left for work in her home office, liaising with the League about official business, he would be in his lab, working on whatever had drawn his interest at the time. She'd join him downstairs for lunch and he'd show her the new modifications he'd made on the suit or whatever it was he was working on then. More often than not, he'd convince her having sex in the lab would help him focus; she was a pushover if he managed to kiss her neck before she was onto him. And then it really was back to work for the both of them before dinner rolled around. If he took her out, they usually saw a movie afterward, or he made a few calls and got the latest in theatres brought to his own personal set up for them to kick back and enjoy without the chatter and interest of others.

If occasionally he blew something up, including himself, she was well aware of where the fire extinguisher was and had the local fire department and such on her speed dial. Used to his behavior by now, she usually just calls him her Mad Scientist and wasn't even  _shocked_ by whatever happened in his lab these days. He smirks to himself. He likes that too. It encourages him to try for bigger, more unusual, always trying to impress her. Because when he did, then he knew it really was something incredible he'd created. She was his muse, he supposed. In everything. He could definitely live with that.

All she's ever done from the moment he met her was surprise him in the best of ways. From saying no to learning who he was and saying yes. From not wanting to date him to loving him beyond all else. She's his backbone and his conscious and the one who bathes his wounds and shakes her head at his latest mishap. She encourages his heroics but is always there with a safety net, a broom and a dustpan. A year and a half ago, they said I Do and they meant it. And in five months they'll have a baby, a  _child_ of their own. He will have his own family. It won't be Tony Stark the genius or businessman or billionaire or Ironman. He would be Tony Stark the husband, the father, the family man. And hell, it's scary and exhilarating and he's already decided he will be awesome at it. All he's ever done is excelled and this will be no different. He's a great husband to Chloe and he'll be a great father to their baby.

Sitting on the balcony, staring up at the waxy moon, he grins.

He's got it all. The life, the fame, the family. Maybe once he'd been undeserving, but he'd learned his lesson, grew from it. He was still a snarky asshole, but there was more to it now. Now he's Tony Stark – head of the Iron Family.

Yeah, it has a certain ring to it.  
  
[ **End.** ]


End file.
